


Be My Baby Daddy

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Established Relationship, Feel-good, Feels, Harry and Clara want a child, Harry is sober, Heavy Petting, M/M, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock donor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 04:25:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2637998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry and Clara want a baby. They pick Sherlock to be the baby daddy. Sherlock needs some help from John to make it happen. Oh and the mirrors help, too!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. FRIDAY

**Author's Note:**

> This is only my second fan fic so please bear with me. I would really appreciate your comments, both positive and constructive. TIA!

Sherlock Holmes sat in a small room, no more than two meters by three. He glanced up at the florescent light overhead that cast a cold light on the stark white walls and pale gray tile floor. He took in the white sink to the left of the door with a large mirror mounted over it and a small light fixture over. The back of the closed door held a large mirror, taking up nearly the entire surface. To the right of the door the white wall held another long mirror. 

He sat on a blue vinyl chair with gray metal legs, a small white plastic table to his right. He was dressed in a black silk dress shirt, unbuttoned and hanging around his lean hips, and black dress socks. His trousers and black silk boxer briefs hung on a hook to his right. His elbows rested on his knees, his head in his hands. He glared at the gray tile between his feet. Nothing. Nothing was happening.

“John!” he groaned. “John! This isn't working!” He paused for two breaths but heard no reply. He opened a drawer in the plastic table, glancing at the magazines inside. “Dull” he muttered. “No help at all.” 

“JOHN!” he yelled “HELP ME!”

***

Doctor John Watson stood in a sterile white clinic hallway, arms crossed across his firm chest, leaning beside a white door. He wore black jeans with a tight dark gray Henley shirt under a short black canvas jacket. 

He glanced up the hallway, then down. He was alone, no one else in sight.

“JOHN!” he heard from behind the door, “HELP ME!”

He signed and ran a hand over his eyes. “Sherlock, for God’s sake,” he hissed at the door. “This is something you have to do on your own. I don’t see how I can be any damned help!”

The door cracked open just enough to reveal a blue-green eye blazing at him under dark curls. “This is not working,” hissed Sherlock through the crack. “Get in here and help!”


	2. Two months prior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Clara pop the big question. Will Sherlock agree?

John and Sherlock sat knee to knee on Harry and Clara’s sofa. Sherlock‘s arm stretched behind John’s shoulders, fingers brushing John’s shoulder. Both were clad in dark tight jeans, John in a soft sapphire t-shirt, Sherlock in a soft white cotton button up with the sleeves turned up to his elbows. Both men were relaxed in a way they usually only experienced in their own Baker Street home. It was easy to be with Harry and Clara. They knew all the men’s secrets - knew they were more than business partners but true life partners. And now that Harry was sober she was a lot of fun with a sharp wit and sparkling eyes.

A delicious smell wafted through the flat from the oven – chicken, garlic, fresh Parmesan cheese and scallions. They were on their second bottle of wine (except Harry, who drank sparkling cranberry soda) and no one was counting the number of empty beer bottles lined up beside the kitchen sink. Everyone felt relaxed, loose and warm

Harry and Clara were seated in comfortable matching chairs on the opposite side of the wooden coffee table. “We have some good news!” Clara said brightly. Her warm brown eyes sparkled as she took Harry’s hand. She glanced shyly at Harry and said, “We’ve decided to have a baby!”

Both men made warm congratulatory sounds. John gave the women his genuine, unguarded smile. Sherlock’s heart contracted at the sight. He saw it so rarely, the smile that took 15 years off John’s face and gave him a glimpse of the happy, unguarded man he’d been before war snatched the smile away. John leaned forward to embrace Harry and Clara, laughing “Congratulations!” into Clara’s hair.

Sherlock leaned back, enjoying the warm moment. “Well, we need a little help from you first,” Clara said, glancing at the men uncertainly. “We’d like Sherlock to be our baby daddy.”

She caught Sherlock mid-swig, beer bottle just removed from his lips. He chocked, quickly brought the bottle back to his lips and spit the drink back in. He sputtered and gasped. “What!” he finally grunted, leaping to his feet. “I’m not … I don’t … I’ve never,” he wheezed, glancing from John to Harry to Clara in alarm. “You know I’m not … into … women.” He finished weakly.

Harry and Clara laughed uproariously at his discomfort. “Don’t worry, Sherlock.” Harry laughed. “We’re not asking you to sleep with Clara! You’ll be the sperm donor!” 

“Donor?” Sherlock gasped, bewildered. He blinked at Harry then Clara. 

“In vitro fertilization. You’ll go to a clinic and jerk off in a jar,” Harry continued in her brash way. “The doctor will take a … turkey baster thing and squirt it … where it needs to go... in Clara.” Clara’s cheeks flushed at the description.

“Why me?” Sherlock asked, pacing into the kitchen. “Why not John? He’s a much better man than I. He’s calm, he’s a doctor, he’s decorated for valor. He knows how to talk to people. He knows how to DO things.” He reached into the fridge, grabbed another beer. He paced back to the sofa and twisted the cap.

John gave him a perplexed look. “What?” Sherlock said. John glanced at the full beer on the table at Sherlock’s knee. “For God’s sake, I spit in that one! Do you expect me to drink it with SPIT in it?” John rolled his eyes and chuckled. Sherlock threw himself onto the sofa, landing so close he was nearly in John’s lap.

Harry leaned forward earnestly, “Sherlock, think about it. Asking my brother to be the sperm donor for my lesbian partner is just a little … creepy.”

“But John and Clara aren’t biologically related” Sherlock countered. 

“I don’t want to be my own child’s aunt.” Harry said calmly. 

“Hmm….good point” Sherlock conceded. He sat forward, his face earnest. “So, what would I … we… John and I … be to this … child? Uncle Sherlock and Uncle John? Uncle John and Daddy? Dad and Daddy?”

“Whatever you would like to be to him or her,” Clara answered levelly. ”You can be as involved, or as uninvolved, as you would like.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, glancing at John. John shrugged and said calmly, “It’s ok with me, love, whatever you decide. I understand the girls wanting you as their sperm donor. And it’s incredibly generous they would allow you – us – to be involved with the baby.” John’s enthusiasm for the idea showed clearly on his face. Sherlock deduced that John actually wanted a child even though he had never brought up the subject.

Sherlock propped one ankle on his opposite knee, sinking back into the sofa. He cupped his chin with his right hand, lips slightly parted, tapping his front teeth with a long, tapered finger. His frosty blue eyes held a far-away look. He drew in a sharp breath, leaned forward and said “OK, I’ll do it.” A small riot erupted, everyone talking at once. Sherlock finally regained the floor, asking “So, what’s next?”

“’I’ll call the clinic Monday. I have to schedule fertility injections. Those last about two months. After a few tests, the doctor will set a date for the in vitro procedure.” Clara said happily. “Ummm … you know, the jerking off and turkey baster?” Harry added with a laugh.


	3. Friday Continued

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is a bundle of nerves at the clinic.

John glanced up and down the hall again – still no one in sight. He grabbed the door handle, opening it only enough to slide through. He clicked the latch behind him and turned the lock.

Sherlock flopped back into the hard vinyl chair. He looked distraught. “Nothing is working! I can’t do this!” he whined. He hung his head, cheeks ablaze. Stress radiated from his body.

John’s heart melted. Sherlock was doing a generous thing for his sister and her partner. He was willingly taking on a huge responsibility without compensation and without complaint. John stepped forward, kneeling between Sherlock’s knees. “It’s OK love” he said gently. “Let’s get you more comfortable.”

He reached for Sherlock’s right hand, pulling it into his, stroking the palm with his thumb. “First let’s get you out of this shirt.” He unbuttoned the cuffs then slipped the shit over his lover’s shoulders. He reached down, taking Sherlock’s right foot onto his knee. He gently peeled off the sock, stroked the high arch. He peeled off the other sock, throwing them aside with the shirt. 

John sat back on his heels and reached up to lift Sherlock’s chin. He looked deeply into the beautiful, pale eyes and whispered, “We’ll get through this together.”


	4. Two weeks prior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can Sherlock keep to the IVF instructions? John tries to help.

Sherlock stood at the kitchen counter in rumpled pajamas, his blue dressing gown hanging loosely from his shoulders. He glanced at the blue instruction sheet on the front of the fridge. He’d read it over when Harry gave it to him weeks ago then hung it up. 

IN VIRTRO DONOR INSTRUCTIONS

TWO WEEKS PRIOR  
• Refrain from smoking  
• Refrain from alcohol and recreational drug use  
• Wear loose fitting clothing and cotton boxer shorts  
• Eat a healthy, balanced diet

ONE WEEK PRIOR  
• Continue all prior instructions  
• Refrain from all sexual activity including masturbation  
• Get adequate sleep

He rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. No smoking, no sex and wearing boxer shorts? Could he really do this?

The flat door opened. John entered with a large shopping bag in one hand, a six pack in the other. “Got you some things you’ll need this week,” he said cheerily.

“What?” Sherlock asked haughtily, eyes blazing at his partner. “Oh good God, Sherlock” John said, “It’s only the first day. If you’re this testy already, maybe I’ll go stay with Harry and Clara for the next fortnight!”

“Sorry John” Sherlock said, contrite. “It’s the whole … not smoking thing.” John looked at him with sympathy. He knew the hardest thing for his lover was being told he couldn't do something.

John upended the shopping bag onto the coffee table and carefully set the six pack down. Out spilled packages of cotton boxers, boxes of nicotine patches, packs of nicotine gum, and a pair of gray sweat pants. 

Sherlock carefully looked over the pile, snatching a pack of gum, tearing at the cellophane. “Boxers?” he said, “I just thought I’d wear yours for two weeks.” He glared suspiciously at the six pack of alcohol-free beer.

“You are not wearing my underwear!” John hissed. “Why not?” Sherlock asked, truly perplexed. “It’s not like I haven’t had every inch that’s covered by them in my mouth. What’s the difference?”

John rolled his eyes. “There just IS” he growled. “Gives me the creeps!” 

Sherlock snorted, throwing his head back. John reached down and picked up a first package of cotton boxers. “I got you cheery colors to help pass the time.” He smiled up into his partner’s eyes. “Yellow smiley faces for today, red hearts tomorrow, orange suns Tuesday, and so forth. And loose fitting sweats.”

Sherlock was touched by John’s thoughtfulness. “Thank you” he breathed, pulling John tenderly to him. “Thank you for thinking of all this. Thank you for putting up with me. But I am not wearing sweats in public.”


	5. Friday Continued

John reached up to place his hand on the nape of his partner’s neck. He rose to his knees, pulling Sherlock’s mouth down to meet his. He kissed him tenderly, gently opening Sherlock’s lips with his tongue. He slanted his lips across his partner’s, deepening the kiss, probing Sherlock’s mouth with his tongue. His tongue laved Sherlock’s palate, his breath sighing into his mouth. 

John pulled back leaving his hand on Sherlock’s neck. He peered questioningly into his lover’s eyes. 

Sherlock hung his head, sighing, “Not working.” 

John put his hand on Sherlock’s pale thigh, stroking his fingertips lightly through the sparse, curly hair. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, a shiver running through his lean frame. “Fucking hell, John. I've been hard for you 24 hours a day for a week! And now, when I need it – nothing.”


	6. Three days prior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get tense during the IVF countdown.

Sherlock was literally losing his mind. He couldn't focus on any of his experiments. He’d forget the melody in the middle of playing his violin. He’d forget where he was going in the middle of walking. He was losing his mind.

He needed a cigarette. He needed a beer, glass of wine – at this point, he’d even take a shot of tequila (and he’d never stooped to a shot of tequila in his life). Most of all, he needed to fuck John Watson. Christ did he ever need to fuck John Watson. Or have John Watson fuck him. Or blow him. At this point, he’d settle for a hand job in an alley from John Watson!

John had made a wonderful pasta dish with chicken for dinner the previous night. Tea for both of them – John hadn't had a drink in two weeks. He felt it was only fair to keep as strictly to the instructions as Sherlock. Since John didn't smoke he didn't have the added stress of that addiction withdrawal. Maybe that’s why refraining from sex wasn't as hard for him. 

Sherlock had tossed and turned all night, eventually getting up and going upstairs to John’s old room. Laying next to John as he slept peacefully was the seventh circle of hell for Sherlock. He wanted to sink his teeth into John’s neck. He wanted to devour him, rip him apart and eat him up. He knew he had to flee the room when he burst into maniacal giggles at the mental image of carving John up like a beef roast. He’d gone most of his life with very infrequent sexual release. Why was one week of keeping his hands off John Watson driving him out of his mind?

John was in the kitchen, dressed and ready for work, when Sherlock skulked downstairs. John set an omelet on the table in front of him, then coffee in his favorite mug. John gazed sympathetically at his best friend. Sherlock looked like hell. He’d lost weight in the past two weeks, his lean frame now nearly emaciated. His face was puffy from lack of sleep, purple shadows under his eyes. He hadn't shaved in days, making his gaunt face look even more shadowed.

“Sherlock, love” John said softly. “If this is too much, just forget it. Have a cigarette, have a drink. Let’s go fuck. None of those will really affect your sperm count or sperm health over much. I just can’t bear to see you this way.”

Sherlock shot John a dark look. “Damnation, John! I can very well control myself for three more days,” he hissed vehemently. “You’re not helping. Stop looking so fucking hot. Go … gain some weight or something! Stop walking around this flat with your tight, hot ass in my face!” Sherlock made a dismissive gesture with his hand. 

“Oh darling,” John said tenderly, “you are in a bad way. What can I do to help you?”

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath, getting a hold on himself. “John, you have been a pillar of strength for me. I could not have born any of these hardships without you. But what I really need from you for the next three days is to just stay as far away from me as you possibly can while living in the same flat. I can’t be held responsible for any hateful thing I may say or do to you until this ordeal is over.”

John smiled fondly and pulled Sherlock up from his chair, wrapping his arms tightly around his slim waist. “All right, love. I’ll give you a wide berth. I’ll sleep upstairs. I’ll go out to the pub evenings. But I’m here if you need anything.” 

Sherlock buried his face in John’s soft hair. “Thank you, John,” he breathed through gritted teeth into the soft silver strands. "I love you."


	7. Friday Continued

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the big day. Time for jerking off and turkey basters! And MIRRORS!

John pulled Sherlock close, smoothing his hair and planting a kiss on his forehead. He released his lover and rose quickly. He turned to flip off the overhead light. The soft yellow glow from the small fixture over the sink warmed the stark room. 

John knew Sherlock loved – absolutely loved – to be petted. He reached down to pull Sherlock to standing by his elbow. John gently spun him around until the taller man faced the mirrors. John stood slightly behind Sherlock. “Look at you,” he breathed against his lover’s shoulder. ”You’re magnificent. A vision of beauty. I could never have imagined a person as perfect as you before I met you. You’re like a beautiful angel fallen to Earth.”

John reached up, smoothing Sherlock’s dark curls back from his pale forehead. “Your hair is like a thunderhead piling up in the west before a storm. Dark, full, luscious. I could get lost in the details of your curls for a week.” Sherlock sighed, leaning into John’s tender scalp massage. 

“Sherlock, have you ever felt a lynx pelt? My biology professor brought one in to class at uni. It was the softest thing I’d ever felt, like running my hands through a warm, furry cloud. The softest thing I’d felt until the first time I ran my fingers through your hair. It’s softer than that lynx pelt. It’s such a luxury for me every time I have the privilege of combing my hands through your hair.”

“And your face. Your handsome, handsome face. I wish you’d comb your hair back off your forehead more. I love seeing the perfect expanse of your forehead.” Sherlock sighed softly, “Wouldn't matter. Won’t stay back,” making John chuckle.

John ran a finger over Sherlock’s left eyebrow. “Your eyes, Sherlock. Your eyes! They’re like no eyes in human history. Blue, green, gray, sliver. All at once, and all individually. The dark lashes, the perfect shape. I am utterly fascinated by your eyes. I can’t stop staring. Most days, I’d be content to simply sit across from you and gaze into your eyes.” Sherlock made a contented sound, leaning into John’s caress at his cheek.

“Do I even have to mention your cheekbones? Your fucking perfect cheekbones? They’re nearly obscene! You very nearly have to wear a veil in public! Have you seen the effect you have on people? Women, gay men – hell, even straight men stop in their tracks when they get a glimpse of your cheekbones!” Sherlock grinned, making the cheekbones in question even sharper.

“Your mouth – your perfect, perfect mouth. Holy fuck, Sherlock, the things you can do with that mouth. I could never even have imagined some of the things you've done for me with that beautiful, filthy mouth. I could fall into those luscious lips and drown.” John stroked a finger across the full lower lip. Sherlock turned his head, sucking John’s finger into his mouth, biting softly.

The light over the sink threw Sherlock’s right side into shadow. John stood behind him, his face in shadow. Only John’s hands, gliding across Sherlock’s neck, were illuminated. “Your neck. Oh Christ, your neck. It’s a good thing you wear a scarf in public, love. Otherwise, I couldn’t be held responsible for launching myself at you and devouring your neck.” He stoked the beautiful column, massaging the tension away. “I wish I were a vampire so I could eat your beautiful neck.” Sherlock sighed a giggle, arching his neck to John’s hands.

“Your collarbones – God, your collarbones!” John nearly moaned. “Shakespeare wrote 250 sonnets. I could write double that to your clavicles alone. The fine bones, the shadows above and under. So refined, so beautiful.” John stroked those gorgeous collarbones, then cupped his hands on his shoulders. “Your shoulders, love. Your shoulders -always there for me. So lean, but so strong. Strong enough to hold me up when I need it, supple enough to bend to me when I need that. So ropy, so fine.”

Sherlock was clearly loving the petting and stoking, sighing and moaning softly. John chanced a glance lower in the mirror, but – nothing. Sherlock was still too stressed for his body to respond to John’s sensual touch.

John stroked his hands down Sherlock’s arms. “Your arms, so strong, so supportive. There to hold me when I need you. And your hands – you have the most beautiful hands of anyone I've ever met. You can make such beautiful music with those long, elegant fingers. And you can drive me absolutely insane with those fingers.” John sighed with desire while he stroked those tapered fingers.

He slipped his hands under Sherlock’s beautiful arms, around to his sternum. He stroked across Sherlock’s pale narrow chest, toying with the dark patch of hair over the sternum. “Your chest. Michelangelo’s David envies your chest. It’s finer, more defined than even David’s.” 

He palmed Sherlock’s pale nipples, then rolled them between his thumbs and forefingers. Sherlock closed his eyes , arching his neck against John’s shoulder and groaning. “Your nipples, so pale, so responsive. Feel what it does to me to touch your nipples?” John gently pushed his growing erection against Sherlock’s hip. “I love it when your nipples respond to my touch. I love knowing I’m making your body do this,” he said as he lightly pinched the hard buds.

John chanced another glance downward. He frowned at Sherlock’s continued lack of response to his petting. Sherlock saw. “I’m sorry, John. This is wonderful. My mind is more turned on than I’ve ever been, but it’s not getting through to my body. Please, go on. I love what you’re doing.”

John slid his hands down, fanning them against Sherlock’s stomach. “Ah, your stomach. Sherlock, I can’t say one feature of your body turns me on the most – expect maybe, your flat, lean stomach. Your stomach just does me in.” He swallowed audibly, stroking downward, following the dark line of hair leading down from his lover’s navel. “I want to lick your flat stomach. I want to nibble… bite … devour it. I can’t put into words what your tight, hard stomach does to me.” John slipped his hands lower, griping Sherlock’s hip bones, pulling his lover’s hips tight against his rock-hard erection. “Feel what touching your stomach does to me,” John whispered huskily into Sherlock’s ear.

He planted wet kisses between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, sucking each vertebra individually. John rocked his hips against Sherlock’s tight ass, breathing on the wet spots he’d made on his back. “Your hips - like a greyhound, so lean and sleek. The valley where your thighs meet your hips - so sexy, so hot. I love to bury my cock in that valley, fit our hips together perfectly.” Sherlock moaned, opened his eyes and looked down. Finally, finally his body was responding. 

“Look, John” he breathed. “It’s working. You’re working.” John sucked on Sherlock’s shoulder, biting softly. A groan escaped his lips as he looked at Sherlock’s beautiful body in the mirror. “Look, Sherlock. Look how magnificent you are,” he breathed against the back of his love’s neck.

John ran his hands down Sherlock’s thighs. “Your legs. Your lean, strong, impossibly long, elegant legs. Fucking hell, Sherlock, I had no idea what heaven was until you wrapped those long legs around my waist the first time.” He fell to one knee, stroking Sherlock’s calves,“So elegant. So perfect. So sexy.” He stroked Sherlock’s foot, his thumb following the high, elegant arch. “You have the most beautiful feet of any person who has ever lived. When you walk around the flat barefoot, just a glance at your feet can get me hard. How can your FEET do that to me?”

John rose to his feet, stroking up Sherlock’s legs, moving his hands to his tight ass. “Oh, Sherlock, your ass. Your tight, hot ass,” John moaned, pushing his hips harder against that beautiful tight ass. 

“John” Sherlock gasped. “Fuck me,” he moaned, “I need you to fuck me. It’s the only thing that’s going to work.” John glanced at the mirror, low, between Sherlock’s legs. His cock was half hard, hanging thick and heavy between his legs. “John, I need this. I’m so turned on but my body won’t let it through. Help me. Please fuck me.” Sherlock’s voice was chocked with desire and desperation.

John hooked the blue chair with his toe, spinning it around toward them. He bent Sherlock over the chair. Sherlock grasped the chair’s arms, groaning with desire. John pulled off his belt, unfastened his jeans, skinning them off along with his boxer briefs. He grabbed the hem of his Henley, pulling it roughly over his head then reached down to jerk the socks from his feet.

He reached for the tube of lube on the plastic table, squirting a generous handful into his palm. He ran his palm between the mounds of Sherlock’s beautiful ass, leaving it slick and soft. He slipped one finger in, Sherlock groaning and gasping. “More John, more” he moaned. He added a second finger, gently fucking them in and out. Sherlock rolled his hips to meet John’s strokes. “Now, John. Please. Don’t make me wait. I need you now. Fuck me now.” John had never heard such a pleading, begging tone in Sherlock’s baritone voice before. It shredded him to hear, nearly driving him wild with desire.

Another palm full of lube, and John was ready to give Sherlock what he begged for. “Look, angel. Watch in the mirrors,” he breathed into Sherlock’s shoulder. They both watched the mirror as John gripped his lover’s hip with one hand, his slick, hard cock with the other, aligning their bodies. John groaned at the sight, so hot and sexy. 

The light from the sink fixture cast a soft glow on Sherlock’s pale skin. His face was in shadow but John’s was illuminated, sweat slicked forehead, his mouth slack with desire. John rocked his hips forward, sliding slowly into Sherlock’s sweet, tight ass. Sherlock arched into John’s stroke, moaning and panting.

“Look, John. Look,” Sherlock groaned. His cock stood out perpendicular to his body, proudly erect and quivering. “It’s working,” Sherlock panted. He met John’s eyes in the mirror, his face flushed with need. “Fuck me. Fuck me hard. Make me come.” 

John set a fast, rough pace - just the way Sherlock liked it. He dug his fingers into Sherlock’s hip bones, pulling him back against his cock roughly. Sherlock gripped the chair back with one hand, bracing the other against the wall. He braced one knee against the seat of the chair to keep it in place. His head hung forward, eyes open, curls partially obscuring is view of the mirror.

“John, my hair. Get my hair out of my face!” he growled. John released one hip, reaching up, taking a fistful of dark curls off Sherlock’s forehead. He pulled back roughly, arching Sherlock’s neck backward. Sherlock squealed at the sight in the mirror of John manhandling him roughly. “I’m going to come” he growled, voice an octave lower than normal.

“Sherlock! The specimen jar,” John cautioned. Sherlock let go of the chair and grabbed the jar. John reached around to stroke Sherlock’s rock hard cock. Once, twice he stroked while Sherlock held the jar in place, then Sherlock was coming, shuddering, moaning, John pulling his hair, pumping into him. John watched Sherlock’s orgasm in the mirrors, nearly fainting with the heat of it. He stroked his lover though wave after wave of pleasure, and when Sherlock was done, released his tight hold on his own pleasure. Sherlock felt John’s orgasm fill him, hot and wet as John panted and groaned behind him, watching from three angles in the mirrors. 

John washed up as well as he could in the sink, then wet a paper towel and handed it to Sherlock. “God I need a shower,” Sherlock mumbled, grinning at his lover, “Why isn't there a shower in a jerk-off room?” John giggled.

They dressed quickly then slipped out together. Sherlock took the nearly-full jar to the nurse station, dropping it casually as he strode by. “Tell the ladies we’ll call them later,” he asked the nurse, giving her one of his signature winks. “I thought you were to wait for them?” the perplexed nurse asked.

“Sorry, can’t stay,” Sherlock said airily as he opened the office door for John. John gave him a puzzled look as he passed through. “What’s your hurry?” He asked lowly. 

“John, we have shopping to do on the way home,” Sherlock purred. 

“Hm? Shopping?” John quizzed.

“We need more mirrors.” Sherlock answered with a wicked grin.


End file.
